If We Shadows
by Drag0nst0rm
Summary: All Tim wanted was to make his father proud of him. That would be a lot easier if his father could actually see him. (Prequel to The Lost Ones; Companion to Come Back Soon and Little Girl Lost).
1. McDie

**PLEASE CHECK BOTTOM FOR WARNINGS.**

 **Also, please note that this is part of a ghost!AU series and may not make sense out of context.**

* * *

Camp Rocket Rocks wasn't built on an old burial ground. There wasn't a forgotten cemetery hiding in the woods that surrounded the ring of cabins. No battles had been fought on the hill that they studied trajectories via handmade catapults on. Despite what the horror movies seemed to think, no one was _actually_ that stupid.

And it was a camp for nerds. Maybe it wasn't that computer camp that Tim had wanted to go to, but a camp where they studied trajectories and math, and where they had long hikes where counselors talked about the scientific classification of each tree, was definitely for nerds, and nerds did stuff like mix up packets of salt and chemicals from their chemistry sets because they'd read a new recipe for ghost bombs in the latest issue of _Cool Science_ and they wanted to try it out.

Except when they said, "Try it out," what they meant was, "See whose salt pack would travel the farthest, which had the biggest spread of salt spray out of it, and which looked coolest." Because there was no way they would see any _actual_ ghosts. That sort of thing only happened when people were stupid, and these kids had been called a lot of things, (nerd, geek, weird, pathetic, weak, _disappointment_ ), but stupid had never been one of them.

Eventually, everyone learns that no matter how smart or careful you are, bad things sometimes still happen.

But they were kids. They didn't know that yet.

* * *

When the bank robbery went wrong, and fifteen people died, including the robbers and two police officers, no one at Camp Rocket Rocks knew anything about it. There weren't any televisions in the camp, and although there were phones, no one thought to call them.

It was only after more police officers arrived on the scene and they realized that most of those people had died _after_ the robbers did that they realized they might have a problem on their hands.

* * *

Camp Rocket Rocks hadn't been Tim's first choice of camp, but the hiking made his dad happy and at least it wasn't a sports camp.

Plus, here he was one of the older kids which meant he got to impress the younger kids with his superior knowledge.

Most of his cabin mates had gone down to the lake to cool off, but Tim had stayed in the cabin. The flowers on the walk down to the lake always made him sneeze.

Besides, this wasn't so bad. Three of the younger kids had crept into the cabin with a box full of frogs they had planned on releasing. Tim could have just scared them off, but he'd been working on building himself a new computer, and what was the point of doing that if you couldn't show off a bit?

He wiped the sweat from his face and sat down on the counselor's bed next to his walkie-talkie. He wasn't sure where Mr. Ben had gotten off to. He was probably at the lake making sure no one did anything stupid.

Three eager faces looked up at him from where they'd sat down on the concrete floor. He grinned at them.

"Okay, so the first thing you need to do is this . . . "

* * *

The problem with hunting ghosts was that they could be almost anywhere. They could have curled up into a tiny space no human could fit in. They could have gone so transparent it was impossible to see them. They could have hitched a ride in any vehicle, gone in any direction.

That was why no one called the camp when the four bank robbers started heading that direction in a stolen car.

No one knew.

* * *

Tim was just getting into an enthusiastic explanation when the walkie-talkie beside him went off. The words were accompanied by bursts of static that made them hard to understand, but what he thought they said was, "Hey, was someone supposed to be coming to pick their kid up early? Because - "

There was more static and then nothing. Tim frowned. All the other messages he'd heard on the walkie-talkie had ended in "over".

He shrugged it off and kept talking.

* * *

There was a gate at the entrance to Camp Rocket Rocks to stop cars from just driving in and a few emergency salt packs hanging by the fire extinguishers, but those were pretty much the only nods to security they had. They were a kids' camp, for crying out loud. They were far more worried about horseplay near the lake then they were about four blood mad ghosts rolling up in a stolen car and getting out.

There had been a practice drill for a ghost attack in the day before the kids got up there, but it was like the fire drill. You had to do it, sure, but it wasn't something you'd ever actually have to _know_. They'd been thinking about lunch, not memorizing where the salt packs were.

Well, most of the counselors hadn't been. Seth Patton had been an exception to that rule, because Seth Patton's grandfather had raised him to believe that paranoia and common sense were interchangeable words.

But Seth Patton was in the mess hall. By the time he figured out what was going on, three people were already dead.

* * *

"Code White! Code White, over! Does anybody read me? Code White, come in!"

The words were hissed and garbled by static, but Tim froze anyway.

The younger kids stopped babbling questions and looked at the walkie-talkie.

"It's a drill, right?" Martin asked.

Tim stared at the walkie-talkie. It vibrated and went off again.

"Seth, what's going on? Over."

"Is this a drill? Over."

"Get me more salt! Now!"

That last one sounded more like someone had accidentally hit the button then that they were sending a message over.

"Yeah, it's a drill," Tim said. The words sounded like they were coming from someone else. "We should - We should probably get in position, though."

They all looked at each other uncertainly.

"Where were we supposed to go again?" Calvin finally asked.

Tim can't remember. He couldn't think, he had to think -

 _Useless_ , he could hear his father scoff.

Here was his big chance to make his dad proud.

"Get in the tubs," he blurted out.

"What?" Martin asked, face crinkling up.

"The plastic tubs everyone brought their stuff in. Get in." Ghosts could sense heat, couldn't they? If they could, then the tubs wouldn't help, but it was worth a shot.

"Oh, come on," Calvin complained. "Everyone's been sticking their dirty laundry in there for a week. Those things stink worse than my sister's boyfriend."

"Yeah, well, live with it," Tim said, trying to sound firm. He walked over to the closest one and yanked the lid off. It was dark green, impossible to see through, and there was enough space for one of the boys to get in if he pulled out a few things. He threw them on the floor and grabbed Martin's arm. "In."

Martin was a wiry little kid, and Tim was an asthmatic who needed to lose a few pounds according to his gym teacher, but the kid got in. Tim put the lid back on but kept it cracked so that the kid could breathe.

The walkie-talkie was still going off. Tim's head was too full of white noise to listen to it. He grabbed Calvin and dragged him over to the next box. The kid squirmed a bit, but he got in, still complaining, and pinching his nose for good measure.

All of the rest of the boxes were see through. Tim looked around wildly before pulling a sleeping bag off of one of the bunk beds. "I'll cover you," he promised the last kid. Gavin, wasn't it?

Gavin was looking at him with a look in his eyes that was way too knowing for a second grader. "This isn't a drill, is it?"

"What makes you think that?" Tim panted. Man, it was hot.

"We have tornado drills at my school," Gavin informed him. "Sometimes we have them when it's storming outside and the teachers have been checking the news a lot." He frowned. "I'm pretty sure the teachers think we're idiots."

"It's probably not a drill," Tim admitted. " _Please_ get in?"

Gavin nodded and climbed in. "Who's going to put the lid on for you?"

Tim hadn't thought of that. "I'll figure something out." He left the lid cracked and then threw the sleeping bag over the tub.

That worked from one side. What about the other?

He grabbed another sleeping bag and draped it over the other end. The effect didn't look quite natural, but maybe ghosts weren't that smart. Or maybe they'd just assume the boys were slobs.

His grandmother had told him to never count on maybes, but Tim couldn't think what else what to do.

"I've got one cornered but the other three are roaming loose, over!" Mr. Seth yelled through the walkie-talkie.

Tim crept over to get it. Should he keep it close to listen for updates? Turn it off so that no one would hear? Plant it as a decoy somewhere else?

They'd had drills for this in school, but most of them came down to, "Stay behind your teacher and do as you're told."

Except in this situation, _Tim_ was the teacher, and he started breathing a little too fast just thinking about it.

* * *

Seth Patton knew where the salt packs were, and he knew how to use them.

But when ghosts have had that much blood, it can take a lot to take them down. And when there were four of them . . .

He'd nailed one by tossing a pack through a window of the mess hall, and he'd keep throwing salt until they stopped writhing and disappeared.

He couldn't do much about the three that had kept running, though. Not until this one was gone.

"They're heading to the cabins, over," he warned. "Who's with the kids over there?"

He didn't like the sound of that silence.

* * *

Tim peeked out the screened window in an attempt to see what was going on.

He hadn't counted on one of the ghosts seeing him right back.

One of them was drifting towards the lake. The other two started heading towards his cabin.

 _You idiot_ , he could hear his father hiss.

 _Okay, okay, um . ._ .

They knew he was here. They didn't know anyone else was.

Tim yanked the door open and took off running for one of the hiking trails. By the time he got to the start of it, he had a stitch in his side and he was already wheezing.

Running wasn't one of his strong suits.

He glanced back.

The ghosts were shooting after him.

Tim took in another wheezing breath and kept running.

 _Brilliant_ , he told himself savagely as he ran, _absolutely brilliant. Run in the direction where there's no help, no salt, no iron -_

He tripped on a tree root, but he didn't fall. He couldn't fall.

It was getting really, really hard to breathe.

 _\- and no inhaler_.

This sort of thing wasn't supposed to happen. It was supposed to happen to strangers, to people who were stupid or careless, not _here_ , not to him -

 _Breathe, breathe, breathe, don't cry, crying's for babies and it won't help you breathe -_

He tripped again, and this time he fell. He could feel the skin on his knees tear. He pushed himself to his feet, but he could barely stand, much less run. His muscles were burning. His dad wouldn't be proud of that at all.

He could hear the ghosts coming. He had to keep running. He stumbled forward a few more steps. There was a creek just past those bushes. Maybe it could hide his body heat. Maybe he could hide. Catch his breath.

Something hit him in the back. Something that just kept coming, sliding through him, and now he really couldn't breathe and his whole body was screaming, screaming, _screaming_ -

But he couldn't scream. His mouth just flopped open like a stupid fish. Something ripped out of him again, and he fell half onto the path, half onto the bushes.

Tim sobbed, but it felt weird. Different. Everything did.

He needed help, but the ghosts were still there, so he just lay there, as still as he could.

He laid that way for a long, long time.

* * *

Seth Patton ended up taking down two of the ghosts that attacked. The police tracked down the other two.

Then it was time for roll call. Seth had to help with that, and he closed his eyes for a minute before he started, because he already knew that not everybody was there.

Some of the kids had just been hiding, it turned out. Hiding with salt packs, some of them.

Seth brushed the salt out of his face. "It's just me, Gavin."

Gavin peered over the top of his box cautiously. "Where's Tim?"

Seth's stomach sunk. "Tim?"

"Timothy McGee," Gavin said, like Seth didn't know who the kid was. "He was going to hide in one of the boxes."

He wasn't in any of the boxes.

He _was_ on one of the hiking trails, and all Seth could think about were three ghosts running past him while he was safe in the mess hall.

* * *

He went to the funeral. Of course he did.

"Your son was brave," he told Admiral McGee.

Admiral McGee snorted. "It was typical of him. He had a great idea, but he didn't have what it took to pull it off."

Tim's grandmother looked about ready to slap him. Seth was kind of tempted to break his nose.

Maybe that was why when he saw the little boy with his face twisted up behind his father that no one else could see, he didn't turn him in.

It was dangerous and illegal and wrong, he knew. But it was hard to equate this pale, shivering figure with the red eyed monsters he'd fought the week before.

So he kept his mouth shut.

He figured he owed the kid that much.

* * *

 **Warnings for the violent death of a child and for a most likely medically inaccurate asthma attack.**

 **A/N: I know Code Whites are an actual thing in hospitals, but I couldn't resist making that the code for a ghost attack, so put it down to alternate history.**

 **Kudos to anyone who got the Fablehaven reference.**

 **The title of this story is from Shakespeare. It's badly out of context, but it is Shakespeare, so credit where it's due.**


	2. McGhost

It was hard to make someone proud when they couldn't see you. Not impossible, but hard.

Tim had initially tried to communicate with his family by putting his computer to good use, but that had just led to Sarah screaming and dumping her (salted) potato chips on it.

Tim hadn't been in it at the time, but the computer could have been damaged by the grease, so he didn't try that again.

* * *

If he was going to make his father proud, he would need something impressive, he knew. Something really impressive and preferably at least somewhat physical in nature.

. . . That last one could prove difficult, all things considered.

He'd heard that ghosts could shape shift, but he wasn't having much luck with it, so there went his plan to give himself huge muscles.

It was hard to do a lot of stuff actually, and the more discouraged he got about impressing his dad, the harder it got to do anything.

Tim retreated glumly to his computer. It wouldn't give him answers, but at least it was something productive to do with his time.

* * *

Tim's family went on vacation. For lack of anything better to do, Tim went with them.

In hindsight, he really should have checked their tickets.

They were headed to an island. There would be salt water everywhere.

If Tim had realized, he would have refused to get off the plane. Unfortunately, he'd stowed away in his sister's luggage bag, a decision he regretted for more than one reason.

Now they were all at the beach, and he was stuck at the hotel. Typical. Just typical. He could never catch a break, could he?

"Are you a ghost?"

Tim jumped backwards and spun around. "No. Absolutely not."

The boy who'd made the comment grinned broadly. "You are, aren't you?"

"No, I'm not!"

"Your elbow's sticking through room 310's door," the boy pointed out.

Tim checked. It was.

This was probably the point where he should run.

The other kid was practically bouncing. "I've been here for years now, and I've never met another ghost kid. What's your name? How'd you die? You're staying here, right? What am I saying, of course you're staying. I can show you all the best places to get food, don't worry. I know this place like the back of my hand."

Tim hadn't felt hungry since he died, but at the mention of food, something in him ached with something very like it. "We can eat?"

"Can we _eat_." The kid rubbed his hands together. "Allow me to introduce you to the wonders of room service trays. People leave the best stuff outside of their rooms. You've got to be careful what you pick, of course, but at this point I've pretty much memorized what's safe."

Tim hesitated. His family could come back while he was gone.

"Oh, come on," the kid pleaded. "You can't tell me you don't want to. You're wasting away!"

"Fine," he relented.

The kid's answering grin almost made him regret that. "Excellent. Well, my new best friend, come with me. I'll introduce you to the wonders of five star dumpster diving. I'm Tony, by the way. Tony DiNozzo."

Tim probably should have volunteered his name at that point, but all he could think about was how his death had been plastered all over the news. If he told Tony his name, the other ghost might recognize it, and he got a weird feeling in his stomach when he considered that.

"How'd you end up here?" he asked instead.

There was a flash in the other kid's eyes like he'd caught the deflection, but he started chattering brightly anyway like he respected Tim's right to privacy.

(Looking back in later years, Tim was pretty sure Tony didn't know what the right to privacy _meant_ and figured that Tony had just been smart enough to know pushing wouldn't get him anywhere.

Or maybe he was lonely enough he didn't want to risk it, a small voice in his head said, but Tim pushed that thought away pretty quickly. Tony didn't need anyone or anything, especially not Tim.)

* * *

The food was good, Tim had to admit. And it was nice talking to someone who understood.

It was less nice when Tony followed him back to his family's room and tried to steal Admiral McGee's wallet so he could check for Tim's last name.

"Tony, no!" Tim hissed.

Tony looked at him innocently. "What? I'm just looking. I won't steal anything, pinky swear."

Yeah, like that was reassuring.

Tony started rifling through it. Tim grabbed for it. Tony held it over his head, just out of reach.

"What in the world," his mom breathed out.

"What?" the admiral said irritably before turning to see his wallet hovering in midair.

He grabbed Mom's wrist and started backing out into the hall. "Sarah, don't come in," he ordered. "I'll get management."

"Oops," Tony breathed.

" _Oops?_ " Tim demanded. "They're going to track us down and salt us!"

Tony waved it off. "Nah. They've been ignoring accounts of a minor haunting for years. No one got hurt, so it's cheaper for them to just give your parents a free night's stay or something instead of calling in hunters. Do you know how many ghost hunters there are out here? _None._ They'd have to import some from the mainland."

That made Tim feel slightly better. Slightly.

"You can't just go around doing stuff like that!"

"Sorry." Tony hung his head.

A moment later, he slowly peeked back up at Tim. "So I saw that your last name begins with 'Mc'."

Tim threw the room service menu at his head. It sailed right through it and banged against the wall.

Tony just grinned. "So what is it? McCormick? McDonald?"

"None of the above." Tim stalked through the nearest wall.

"Bad idea," Tony advised even as he followed him. "You never know when someone might be changing. McHardy? McGraham? McSkywalker?"

"Now you're just making names up," he grumbled.

"Yep," Tony admitted cheerfully. "McRumplestiltskin? McGhost?" He paused. "Huh. I like that one."

"No."

"McBond? McHungry? McDead?"

"McAngry?" Tim suggested.

Tony paused to consider that one. "Nah, doesn't suit you. McGoo? McGlare? McStalking? . . . "

* * *

"What are you doing?"

"I'm working on my computer."

"Mc _Geek_ ," Tony breathed.

Tim sighed. "Go away, Tony."

Tony ignored him as per usual. "So, I've been wondering. Why are you here?"

"My family's here."

"They don't know _you_ are," Tony pointed out.

"Well, why are _you_ here?" Tim said defensively.

Tony leaned back against the wall casually. "My dad left me here. I got sick. He came back, buried me in the garden, and then left. But he's coming back," Tony added quickly. "And I want to be here when he does."

"Shouldn't you be watching the garden, then?"

Tony shrugged. "I tried that for a few years. I got bored."

 _Years?_

"Anyway, my dad loves this hotel. I'm sure when he comes back he'll be here for a few days. Plenty of time for me to see him."

Tim was reminded of the time he'd been in the school talent show. Everything had gone horribly wrong, including the fact that he'd insisted, right up until he was actually on stage, that his dad would be there.

He didn't think that comment would be appreciated though, so he said instead, "Hey, wanna see something cool?"

Tony flashed him a grin like he was having the time of his life and said, "Is it a line of code?"

"No."

"Does it involve explosions?"

" . . . No."

"Shame. Show me anyway."

* * *

Tony bounced into the hotel room the same as he had every other morning. His grin slowly faded though, when he saw the suitcases being packed up.

And, more importantly, when he caught Tim slipping a piece of his disassembled computer into the luggage.

"You're leaving?"

Sarah probably could have dissected the look on Tony's face, but there had been a reason Tim had struggled socially at school. He opted to ignore it.

"Keep your voice down," he hissed.

"It's not like they can hear us. Why are you leaving? Is it about the name thing? Because - "

Tim shook his head. "They're my family, Tony."

Tony stared at him for a long moment. "Right. Right." His megawatt smile slid back into place. "Sorry, should have thought that through a little bit sooner."

Tim was relieved he was taking it so well. "Yeah. Well."

"Think you'll be back next summer?"

Tim shook his head. "I doubt it. It's a miracle they're not suing the hotel."

"Most of the guests like the element of danger," Tony grumbled.

"My dad's not most people."

"I've noticed."

His parents were grabbing their bags. Sarah was already out the door.

Tim hesitated. "Here." He gathered up his will enough to pick up the complimentary pen and scribble down his email address on the matching pad of paper. "If you can get your hands on a computer . . . "

Tony's grin grew. "I'm a DiNozzo. We can do anything."

"Right. Well. Bye, Tony." Tim walked, somewhat reluctantly, towards the door.

"Hey, McSecret!"

Tim turned around to see Tony looking unexpectedly serious. "Be safe."

Tim nodded. "Yeah. You too."

He slid through the door.

"And eat something, you're as frail as my great-grandmother!" Tony hollered.

"Am not!" Tim yelled back.

A woman exiting her hotel room looked around in confusion. Tim winced and hurried past. His family was already in the elevator.

It was a good thing Sarah couldn't hear that reply, he decided. 'Am not' didn't exactly make for much of a comeback. She would never have let him live that down.

Well. As much as he could _live_ anything down these days.

Figures of speech got a lot more complicated once you were dead, Tim decided.

His mother's hand went right through him so that she could press the button for the ground floor.

 _Most_ things got more complicated once you were dead, he corrected. But some of them, like making his dad proud, were worth it.

Right?


	3. McHacker

Tim had known from the start that there was only so long his family could ignore the signs that they weren't alone in the house, Sighted or not. It hadn't been a surprise when they called for a hunter, and it hadn't been fair to feel hurt.

This _was_ going to make it more difficult to make his dad proud, though.

He found an empty house to hole up in for the time being and set up a computer station to monitor his family's house with. He kept an increasingly worried eye on Tony's emails too. The last one had sounded worryingly like a goodbye.

The next one, although cheerier, wasn't any better. He was going with a _federal agent?_ Was he crazy?

It seemed to be working out, though. His emails stayed cheerful and they were definitely from Tony. No government agent trying to lure him in could have come up with half of this stuff.

Still. As much as Tony might like Gibbs, Tim wasn't quite ready to trust him yet.

A favor, though . . . He could do a favor for Tony. Especially if there was going to be steak at the end of it.

After all, he reasoned, it wasn't like he was ever going to have to actually _meet_ Gibbs.


End file.
